


Ne Id Faciamus

by brevitas



Series: Leader of the Muses [7]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Greek Gods AU, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:07:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevitas/pseuds/brevitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras begins a mortal revolution and Grantaire asks him to be more careful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ne Id Faciamus

Enjolras is gone for three hours before Grantaire gets a text. He's standing on his balcony painting, his bare skin tattoed with wayward colors he's flung on himself, his fingers sticky with drying paint, and still he grins when his phone dings. He has no towels out here and glances thoughtfully down at his shirt, assessing it as too far gone to salvage anyway and wiping his palms clean.

Once he's satisfied that he won't ruin his phone he digs it out of his jeans and unlocks the screen, his grin only broadening when he sees the text is from Enjolras. Apollo is terrible when it comes to modern technology; he lets Combeferre handle most of that, and when he does have to type out texts himself they are generally on par with Grantaire's drunken ramblings.

It looks like it says that Enjolras won't be home tonight, but that they'll talk tomorrow, and then there's a smiley face that's winking at him on the end so he judges that he interpreted it right. He feels a little silly and lovestruck when he sets the phone down with a dreamy sigh and returns to his painting but he can't begrudge himself for it--he hasn't felt like this in years, and it's refreshing. He picks up a paintbrush and scrutinizies the canvas, a poignant illustration of Enjolras charging into battle, the sun striking his hair and transforming him into a column of fire.

He goes to bed not longer after, noticeably sober for once, crawling under the blankets still mottled with paint. Grantaire has terrible nightmares that night, courtesty of Morpheus, he's sure (they got in a fight a long time ago and sometimes, when Morpheus grows idle, he still sends him vicious dreams). When he briefly wakes with a groan and rolls over he reminds himself to kick that man in the groin the next time he sees him.

But he falls back asleep anyway, and next he dreams of Enjolras in a revolution, leading the mortals with toasts of a flag and calls of inspiration. It's exactly how his painting looks but living, shivering, citizens crowding at his feet desperate to touch his shining glory. It's not a terrible vision, far from it, but Grantaire feels uneasy and he knows inherently that something is about to change.

It does, in an explosion of shrapnel and screams, gore splashing against boarded windows and the backs of people who have turned instinctively away. Fear clutches at Grantaire's heart and he reaches blindly through the acrid smoke, discarding the dead humans he heaves up, searching instead for a glint of gold or blue or that telltale red coat he loves to wear and-- _there_.

Grantaire seizes his shoulder and drags him out but Enjolras has been all but destroyed, his frail body hollowed out. He drops to his knees at his side and shakes him, digs his fingers so tightly into Enjolras' pale skin that it hurts and thinks about how even mortals can tear down gods.

When he wakes again he's breathless and sweaty and he crawls to the side of his bed gracelessly, pushing at his sheets until he's freed his legs. He sits down gingerly, thinking about the revolution, thinking about Enjolras and all the close calls he's had before, thinking about the single kiss he's received and how many more he'll never have if something happens. Gods can be ressurected if Valjean so instructs but his brother is possessive over his souls and fights bitterly to protect them from thievery; Javert swore the last time Zeus took a spirit from that he would allow no more.

Grantaire has gone into the Underworld before and he remembers it in the foggy nature of a dream you can't quite hold on to, vague and surreal. He thinks he remembers the silence down there, and the leer Javert wore when Dionysus came asking for his mother, but the only certain thing he recalls is the lack of colors.

It had been all grays and white and black and long stretches of endless sterling soil, tall wisps of pale souls huddling together and peering at him with featureless faces and wane ivory eyes. Grantaire had been troubled but it had meant little to him past the initial discomfort, and he'd passed them by without a second thought, determined to find Semele.

Later, when he succeeded and came home, flushed from meeting his mother (finally, he'd imagined it for so long), he'd tried to paint the Underworld, and been frustrated with each failed attempt. His brushstrokes did not do justice to the smooth quality of everything there, his paints too vivid and palpable to fade quite like the City of Dis could, spires rising above a sea of nameless souls. Grantaire hasn't thought about it in a long time but he thinks of it now, thinks of how Enjolras might look down there, a godly soul trapped among mortals, smoldering againt their grays like ash but how long could even his fire hope to burn?

Grantaire shudders and wraps his arms around himself and tries to decide what he wants to do, the taste of mortality a sour note at the back of his mouth.

+++++

Enjolras comes home pleased, bone-tired but satisfied with what he has accomplished. Combeferre and him worked through the night to rekindle a new revolution, whispered talk of marches and demonstrations to retired leaders of the free people, stirred sparks of rebellion in the belly of the city where the cold and the hungry wither away. 

He's pleased by the time they return to Olympus, thinks he may have planted the seed he needs. He heads to his quarters alone, having left Combeferre at his own, and glances at the wristwatch he wears; a two hour powernap should do him just fine, and then he can find Grantaire.

Revolution had distracted his conscious but apparently not his body, as Combeferre had asked him in an amused sort of way if he was aware he was quite maniacally licking his bottom lip. He'd blushed and denied it but it was true; with each swipe of his tongue he remembered Grantaire, the bitter taste of cigarette smoke, the sharper bite of an alcoholic brew. To Enjolras, who has never partaken in such vices, the flavor is new and incredible, and even tired as he is he thinks resltessly of Grantaire's wine-red mouth.

He turns the corner to his rooms and smiles when he saw Grantaire, slouching against the wall, a lit cigarette wafting smoke in his hand. They notice each other at about the same time and Dionysus turns to him, his reflexive smile strained.

In retrospect, Grantaire should never have tried to talk to him like this, fresh from a revolution and aching for sleep. Looking back at it, Grantaire would have done a lot of things different.

"Morning, Apollo," he says, and Enjolras replies, "Good morning." He inclines his head towards his door, says, "I was going to catch a few hours of sleep," right about at the same moment Grantaire blurts, "I think you should be more careful."

Enjolras blinks at him and tilts his head, echoes, "More careful?" and Grantaire can practically see the disbelief dripping from his voice. "With what?"

"The mortals."

Enjolras' head ticks a few more degrees to the right. "...Grantaire, we are gods. I have no fear surrounded by humans."

Grantaire frowns, says sharper than he intended to, "You should," and regrets it as soon as Enjolras' mouth pulls down into a severe line.

"Why? They can do nothing to me. I am bringing their country a revolution and they will not harm me while I am leading them to peace."

"Enjolras," Grantaire groans, "I am not worried about _those_ mortals. I'm worried about the ones you're taking the power from; the big guys in the government?" Enjolras just looks at him and Grantaire says irritably, "Their technology has advanced since you last bothered to check their weapon systems."

Enjolras scoffs because he is proud, and he is immortal, and he will lead a revolution through a shower of bombs before he lets these people atrophy. "They will not harm me," he repeats.

"They _will_ ," Grantaire insists, angry now, and rather than back off and discuss this rationally later his temperament surges to meet Enjolras', a fury stirring in the blonde's eyes. "You're being arrogant."

"Arrogant?" Enjolras spits, and takes a step forward, the space between them vanishing. "I am _freeing_ these people from servitude. There is nothing arrogant about that."

"You are freeing these people because you're so conceited that you think they couldn't do it on their own!"

"They can't! They're _mortals_! We had to give them fire, and life, and names; mortals can do nothing without us, Grantaire, which is why I have nothing to fear!"

Grantaire tightens his jaw, says between his teeth, "Have you talked to Feuilly about this?" He'd studied many of the modern bombs, taken them apart in curiosity and left them broken in fear. Humans should not have such power, he'd told Grantaire. With this they could level even a god.

Enjolras just shakes his head and Grantaire pokes his chest, says, "You don't even know what you're getting into. You're acting like a child who can't have his way and--"

" _I'm_ the child?" Enjolras interrupts with a cold laugh. "You're begging me to stop. I've done this a thousand times before and suddenly we kiss and you _own_ me? I will do what I want, Grantaire."

"You're taking it out of context," he snaps in reply, wants to say he's just worried about him, wants to explain that he had a terrible nightmare that Death took Enjolras and Grantaire was alone. But he doesn't get the chance, because Enjolras, at the climax of his temper, says, "I wish I never would have kissed you," and Grantaire stops.

He stares up at him and Enjolras glares back, no apology in his frosty eyes, no 'sorry's rushing to his lips, and Grantaire is numb when he asks, "...what?"

"You heard me." Enjolras is a beast when he's angry, sheds any claim to humanity and becomes what he is; a fiery, cruel god who once flayed a man for thinking he could best him. "I wish I never would have kissed you."

"Well," Grantaire says, because it feels like someone has clamped his heart in their fist and is doing dangerous things to his lungs with their thumb. "Well."

"Yes, well." Enjolras waves a hand at him, leans past Grantaire and opens his door. "I have nothing more to say to you. I will lead this revolution, and I will give these people a better life."

In retrospect, Enjolras wishes he would have stayed in the hallway, and kissed Grantaire until he'd smiled again, and run a hand through his hair and apologized for being so cruel. But he cannot change what he has yet to regret, and when he slams his door there is not a sorry in sight.

"Well," Grantaire says to the empty hallway and the icy hand in his chest. "Well."

+++++

Enjolras is awakened by a mad hammering at his door and he peers sleepily at the clock, sighs when he realizes he's only been asleep for an hour. It took him a while to calm down after his fight with Grantaire and now he feels a little sorry about what he'd said (but just a little--Grantaire had no right to go ahead and try to claim him, after all, or expect Enjolras to change his whole lifestyle just because Dionysus got cold feet) but he still hopes it isn't Grantaire all the same because they never do well this soon after a fight. 

He pulls open his door and it's Jehan, his eyes wild, his hair decorated with only a single rose that seems to have been quite hurriedly put in. Enjolras blinks at him and straightens when he reads the panic in his face, says quickly, "What happened?"

"Grantaire," Jehan answers, and Enjolras sourly thinks that he can't have even a moment's rest without the drunk popping up to ruin it. "We can't find him and he isn't answering any of us."

Enjolras points out rationally, "Grantaire has gone missing before," but Jehan is shaking his head before he even finishes.

"Not like this." He fiddles with the hem of his sweater, his fingers nervous. "He joined us for breakfast and seemed fine but then all the sudden he stood up and said he was leaving. None of us knew what to do--he vanished before we could even say anything."

Enjolras shrugs, says, "It sounds like he was just being dramatic," because he's still a little mad. Jehan looks unsure but eventually nods, wraps his arms around his thin shoulders. "I guess."

"Good." Enjolras smiles at him and tucks a freed lock of hair behind one ear, gets a tiny smile in response. "I'm sure he'll come home for dinner. Okay?" Jehan nods. "Okay."

But Grantaire doesn't come to dinner, or breakfast the next day, or breakfast the day after that, and a week passes and Jehan looks at Enjolras like he's been lied to and Enjolras doesn't tell anyone that he's started whispering "Dionysus" into his pillow at night in a despairing attempt to lure Grantaire home.

**Author's Note:**

> so I don't even know, guys, this was supposed to be a victory chapter to cheer me up after surviving my linguistics test and angst happened? these two are drama queens, I tell ya
> 
> hope everybody likes this chapter and kisses to all my readers and sorry for the angst I swear I was trying to write something happy and nice.
> 
> title means "let us not do this" because I heard it in Latin class today and got all sorts of e/r feels so there you have it
> 
> tumblr is idfaciendumest if you want to follow and chat me up and I think that's about all I've got this round, don't forget some more kisses for all ya'll


End file.
